


No Part Unremembered

by HoloXam



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other London, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/pseuds/HoloXam
Summary: 'The Dead Policeman' is notorious for its foul whisky-permutation, and for its dark corners where one can get stabbed and bleed out in peace, or get as sloshed as one pleases without interruption. There’s a certain hopeless misery to the place that Zolf can appreciate.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	No Part Unremembered

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks and credit to Kadet for workshopping Other London bar-names with me <3 
> 
> Title from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds' _Girl In Amber._

The trip down to Other London was never a cheery one, and, even with the post-apocalyptic rebuild efforts, it has not improved particularly. The long stairway down is difficult with his legs, despite the magic, but Zolf takes the trip regardless, a foul mood and grim determination leading him as by a leash, towards the depths, towards the glum, dour bars with the volatile but self-contained clientele, where he can hide in plain sight and stagger on his way without being accosted for his mean complexion. 

_ The Dead Policeman _ is notorious for its foul whisky-permutation, and for its dark corners where one can get stabbed and bleed out in peace, or get as sloshed as one pleases without interruption. There’s a certain hopeless misery to the place that Zolf can appreciate, even though he sees  _ her _ in every scrawny patron brooding into their pint. 

And, honestly, isn’t that the whole point.

It still aches now, years later, thinking of Sasha. He tells himself it’s ridiculous; he’s lost so many people that he knew for much longer, and was much closer to in the time he knew them, but somehow Sasha stands out among them as a raw wound that’s stubbornly refusing to heal. 

He usually manages to suppress the guilt, able to tell himself that she lived a long, fulfilling life, and that he is  _ so lucky _ to even  _ know _ that. 

Usually. 

Sometimes, he misses her so much he can’t stand it; sometimes he is so close to tracking down a wizard and paying them to throw him through time and space, back to a time he doesn’t belong in, so he can track her down and tell her— what?

He has thought through the steps so many times, come up with fantastical solutions to how he would arrive in the ruined Rome at exactly the right time and walk his penance in search of her, has mapped out every little detail until he’d actually  _ be _ there. 

But then even the hypotheticals fail him. What would he even  _ say? _ What  _ could _ he say? He could apologise. Tell her he missed her. Tell her he grieved for her for so long. 

He’s not sure she’d want that at all. 

Not sure that she’d want to see him in the life she’d established for herself. Not sure what he’d do, once he was there, without the ability to get back to the life  _ he’s _ established for himself. 

So he walks it out. Drinks it down. Sits in Other London’s shadiest pubs and feels her presence linger in the shadows. He can see her mannerisms and hear her dialect in them, the people moving silently, the ones that suddenly have a dagger out, can smell her in the bitter taste of the local moonshine. 

She's there in the awkward stance of the young people who don't want to be noticed, in the elegant flowing movements of someone who knows what they're doing as they reach across the bar and pour themself a pint without the barkeep noticing. 

She's in the carvings on the tables and the benches, in the rolled up cigarettes, and in the eyes that long for somewhere else. And she isn't here, because she left this agony behind for good. 

Zolf buys a cup for himself and a cup for Sasha and sits there for a moment, quiet. 

“Cheers, darlinʼ,” he mumbles after a while, downing first his own drink, then hers. In here, nobody bats an eye.

“Cheers, boss,” Sasha replies much later, transparent and blurry, and he smiles at her. 

It's a long way back up the stairs. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3 
> 
> Find me on tumblr and twitter @ holoxam :)


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